Our backyard isn’t exactly regulation size, so we use the oak tree as first base, the hydrangea bush as second, and Dad’s garden gnome collection as third.
When it’s Matteo’s turn, he takes the plastic bat I hand him, weighing it like it’s a potential weapon rather than a toy. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”
I quickly explain the rules, and for once, without cheating. It’s a proud moment for me.
“Simple enough,” he says, though his expression suggests otherwise.
My dad’s pitching stance is deceptively casual, but the man has a wicked curveball that’s taken down many an overconfident opponent.
“Ready?” he calls to Matteo, his smile pure evil behind its paternal warmth.
Matteo nods, setting his feet and raising the bat with perfect form, like his body instinctively knows what to do even if his brain doesn’t.
Dad’s first pitch curves right past him as he swings too late.
“Strike one.” Ollie crows from the outfield.
I step up behind Matteo, wrapping my arms around him to adjust his stance. “Bend your knees more,” I murmur, my hands on his hips. “And swing earlier than you think you need to.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised. “Is this an excuse to feel me up in front of your parents?”
“Maybe,” I whisper back. “Is it working?”
His grin is the answer.
The next pitch comes in fast, but this time Matteo connects—a solid crack that sends the ball sailing into the neighbor’s rosebushes.
“Holy shit, run!” I yell as Ollie scrambles to retrieve it.
Watching Matteo—deadly, graceful, lethal Matteo—sprint awkwardly around my parents’ backyard, tagging each ridiculous base while my family cheers and shouts contradictory advice, might be the single most surreal moment of my life.
The game escalates quickly. Mom proves she can still run the bases faster than any of us. Ollie hits the gnomes, resulting in a heated debate about whether the decapitation of Grumpy counts as interference.
Dad makes a diving catch that sends him rolling into the hydrangeas, emerging with leaves in his hair and a triumphant grin.
By the time we call it quits—my team won by two runs, thank you very much—we’re all sweaty, grass-stained, and laughing.
Matteo’s hair is sticking up at odd angles, his designer shirt now has a dirt smudge on the shoulder, and he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him outside of bed or setting something on fire.
“Present time,” Mom announces after we’ve all caught our breath and cleaned up.
We gather on the patio where wrapped gifts wait on the side table. Leo and Ollie go first, presenting Dad with a beautiful handcrafted tackle box that Ollie’s craftsman uncle made, already filled with fishing lures.
“These are gorgeous,” Dad says, examining each one with reverent fingers. “Thank you, boys.”
Mom’s gift is next—a leather-bound first edition of Dad’s favorite Ernest Hemingway novel that makes him kiss her right there in front of us, prompting Leo and me to make identical gagging noises.
“My turn,” I say, handing over my carefully wrapped package.
Dad unwraps it to reveal the vintage pocketknife I bought before everything went to hell. For a moment, I’m back there, cold concrete against my skin, the drip-drip-drip of water marking time.
Then Matteo’s hand finds mine, warm and solid, anchoring me to the present.
“This is exquisite,” Dad breathes, turning the knife over in his hands. “German steel, pre-war by the look of it. Where on earth did you find this?”
“I have my sources,” I say. “Figured it was time to upgrade from that rusty Swiss Army knife you’ve been carrying since dinosaurs roamed the Earth.”
He tests the blade against his thumb, nodding appreciatively. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
